


#2: Never Cancel Plans by Text Message

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Stood Up, previously posted on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint texts Phil. Phil doesn't get the message.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#2: Never Cancel Plans by Text Message

Clint wobbled as he groped for the crutches propped up by the arm of the chair, intent on answering the pounding on the door before he was tempted to stick an ice-pick into his eye ball to stop the throbbing counterpoint. He’d been nearly to sleep, lulled by the pain killers and exhaustion that came from a mission gone not-totally to plan.

The crutches were awkward to manage with three fingers of his left hand in a splint, and his right arm should have been strapped down in the splint he’d left medical wearing to brace his dislocated/relocated shoulder after he’d had to execute an unplanned strategic retreat from a fifteenth floor balcony.

But the knocking was getting more insistent, and it had to be important since he’d texted Coulson – Phil – to cancel their dinner plans and he hadn’t ordered a takeaway. Probably it was one of the other residents needing him to look at something while the building was between Supers. Again. Or it could have been SHIELD since he’d turned his phone off and kicked it under the coffee table when he’d gotten home since he was on medical leave.

He grabbed one crutch to use in his left hand (the wrong hand to support his wrenched left knee) and hobbled to the door with a hoarse call of “Coming!” Clint balanced precariously as he unfastened the chain and threw the deadbolt, tugging the door open.

Phil Coulson stood on his doorstep, still dressed in his sharp dark gray suit, but his tie was loose around his neck and the top button of his oh-so-barely-blue shirt was undone showing where the smooth skin of his neck transitioned into 5 o'clock stubble. 

He was also pissed, given the tense lines around his eyes and mouth and slight color high on his cheekbones. Lines that softened as they quickly travelled the length of Clint’s body, taking in the details of his appearance, from the old, worn hoodie and sweats and thick socks, to the bandage at his temple. “Well, that certainly explains a few things,” Phil said, the anger seeming to drain away.

Clint looked at him in confusion, then hopped back a step to let him in. “What-?”

“We had a date, Clint.” Phil explained patiently.

“I texted you?” Clint said, hobbling back toward his third-hand sofa, not really meaning it to come out as a question, but he was still mostly asleep. Clearly Phil hadn’t gotten the message.  
Phil sighed, moving with Clint to help him sit down. “I lost my phone in an R&D mishap yesterday,” he explained. “So I got the call you were back on my office phone, and that you’d reported to medical, but not your text. Or apparently that you’d checked yourself out again,” he said dryly. Phil was no longer Clint’s direct supervisor since Clint’s promotion to level 7, but it was still protocol to let the handler for Strike Team Delta know when his assets were back on base (even if they hadn’t been a strike team for nearly six months).

“I did not ‘escape’,” Clint protested as Phil sat next to him. “They let me go.”

Phil just leveled his ‘I don’t believe a word you’re saying, Agent’ look at Clint. “They did!” Clint protested. “Sitwell signed off and a junior agent gave me a ride home.”

“Shoulda pulled the report,” Phil grumbled to himself as he lifted his arm to curl his fingers around the back of Clint’s neck, stroking his fingers lightly over the short hair at the base of his skull.

Clint sighed softly at the touch. “Sorry.” He leaned his head back, trapping Phil’s fingers between the back of the couch and Clint’s neck, then turned to look at Phil. “How long’d you wait?”

Phil looked sheepish. “An hour. Worked myself up into coming over here and giving you a piece of my mind for being a complete and utter asshole.” He smiled slightly, only one side of his lips twisting up. “I may have jumped to conclusions.” He pinked a bit. “Though the couple of scotches may have had something to do with that,” he admitted.

Clint huffed a laugh and let himself list slightly to the side, coming to rest against Phil’s solid presence. Phil shifted a bit and Clint settled more comfortably. Phil pressed his lips to Clint’s temple, just under the bandage. “No concussion, I’m guessing, since they let you go?” Phil asked.

“Mm,” Clint agreed. “Didn’t hit my head. Just got caught by some flying glass.” Phil was warm and solid and Clint began to feel sleep pull at him again.

“Before or after you fell from the building?”

Clint couldn’t see his face, but he knew Phil had one eyebrow lifted in skeptical curiosity. “I don’t _fall_ ,” Clint grumbled. “Before.”

Phil hummed thoughtfully and gave Clint’s bicep a squeeze. They were quiet for several minutes the sound of the city drifting through the completely energy inefficient windows in the older building Clint inhabited. He drifted, finding himself in that hazy space between awake and asleep.

“What did they give you?” Phil asked into the quiet.

“Vicodin,” Clint mumbled. 

Phil hummed again in acknowledgement and shifted in warning. Clint let himself be shifted so Phil could move. Phil’s voice rumbled against the ear Clint rested against his chest as he spoke to someone, probably ordering food, since he'd asked about the drugs. Vicodin made his appetite vanish, and Phil knew that. 

“Still awake?” Phil asked gently.

“Mm,” Clint mumbled. 

Phil laughed softly. “Get some sleep,” he said fondly.


End file.
